


His to Keep

by RaisonDetre



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Divergence, Dark!Dean, Demon!Dean, M/M, No Dialogue, how I think Dean looks and feels about his brother, not a hopeful ending my friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisonDetre/pseuds/RaisonDetre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean had something bad in him. Had it clawing up his throat, trying to climb out as if it was scared of its host.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His to Keep

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write something about... about a fucked up Dean. But then, as I explored it- it really just... I don't know.

There's something bad. There's something bad bone-deep, nestled just between his lungs and threading through his veins. 

They talk, he hears the whispers. Behind chipped glasses of whiskey, in roadhouses that map out in the shittiest towns in America, miles and miles from any public road- and they all watched- talked... whispered about the eldest son of John Winchester.

He was broad, even as a child. He had green eyes, the prettiest shade of emerald, that were beady when he was looking at anyone else that wasn't the kid- his name was Sammy, or at least- they think, between all the 'baby boy's and 'sweetheart's and 'darling's, they weren't sure. (Hell, Sammy thought his name was legally 'pretty boy' once upon a time.)

He had lips, plump and pink and taut- they were two pillows that promised a killer smile, one that could make even the toughest hunter want to quirk a crooked grin. But they pulled back, showed off a set of pearly whites, like an animal. As if Dean Winchester was a predator. (And he was, it was smarter to stay away from a pissed off Dean who was his baby brother's shadow.)

Dean had rough hands- calloused since he was old enough to hold a gun. (Calloused since he was competent enough to realize Sammy was his. His to protect, his to care for, his to love. His.) 

Dean had something bad in him. Had it clawing up his throat, trying to climb out as if it was scared of its host. 

There was darkness. Oh, God. There was so much darkness. There were years of jealously as he watched his Sammy leave him, months sitting in the same roadhouses screaming and shouting and putting back every single ounce of whiskey until the same men who feared the feral boy sat him down and tried to talk him out of his riddled mind. There had been anger- God-damn-it, God-kill-it, God-fuck-it anger. Anger at John leaving, at his father forgetting the only thing that needed protection was Sammy, not some divorcee who had a ghoul problem or shitty kids that had tried to raise a lower demon. 

There was... there was want. There was the deepest, most-fucking-forbidden want that Dean had ever experienced. It was a taboo, something that isn't acknowledged, something that boys like Sammy weren't supposed to have to experience.

Sammy had a light to him. If it was in the way he smiled with two dimples like thumbprints in his cheeks, or how his eyes never decided what color they wished to be, or how his long limbs would make his hips sway in the most sinfully innocent way, or how- when he was sitting in the passenger seat, feet on the dash just because Dean liked to see his legs stretched out, he'd talk. Never shut up. Kid could go on for hours, talking and talking, expressing how they could have normal. Dad was three hours ahead, they could just split and paint the town in their own shade of red.

Sammy didn't know he was playing with fire. Didn't know that the first time he kissed Dean, Dean had wanted it since before he even popped a damn boner. Didn't know that this kiss meant it was a signature to a contract, where the only way to live was with Dean- if he was hanging off his dick, or screaming out his lungs at the older man, or crying his heart out to him, or crawling up against the bastard, with his hot hands on the pillars of his chest and curling up in every available crevice Dean had to offer.

 

There was darkness. Insatiable. 

Haunted Dean, because Dean knew- Dean fucking knew- that the light in Sammy made him malleable, threatened him to anything that happened to be damned. Dean was a threat to Sam. 

Dean was the worst thing that Sammy could possibly have ended with. He was the worst decision. The epitome of bad, not good, get the fuck out of Dodge.

Dean, Dean had thorns that bristled over Sammy, rose him into the air where he could gather sunlight. Dean had vicious pricks that would protect Sammy until they've all fallen off, but he wanted Sammy alive and safe almost as much as (less than) he wanted Sammy alive and his. 

Dean was bad. Sammy had sprouted from a rotten seed, but Dean- Dean had fucking bathed it in, relished in the feeling of lukewarm blood, liked that he liked the disease. Dean didn't want to stop. Sammy did. Sammy always wanted to stop, always screamed and pleaded at Dean to kill him, let him die, leave him for dead.

And Dean was here now, and somewhere between this darkness and this curse- or whatever it was, because he used to think it was a blessing, but now he doesn't exactly know- he's staring at Sammy. He's grasping at Sammy. He's screaming at Sammy. He's kissing Sammy.

And Sammy isn't kissing back. Sammy isn't pushing into his older brother, Sammy isn't letting him be bent over. Sammy isn't trying to clutch at Dean's face, to push him closer before pulling away to seep down to the floor and suck him off.

Sammy is screaming. It's echoing because the bunker's dungeon always did that.

And Dean doesn't care.

Because Sammy is alive. And Sammy is his.


End file.
